


Notre Père Qui Es aux Cieux

by imaginarycircus



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Falconers, M/M, Road Trip, superstitious catholic grandmothers, uncomfortable secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6708409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tater is the friendliest player on the Falconers and also the most likely to figure out Jack is dating a guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notre Père Qui Es aux Cieux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGreatSporkWielder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatSporkWielder/gifts).



> Assuming Jack's family is Catholic because French-Canadians in my family all are. Title is "our father, who art in heaven" in French. And special thanks to Verity for telling me who the nicest Bruin is.

It's their first roadie of the season. Jack lingers at the end of the line boarding the bus. He doesn't want to text Bitty while sitting next to someone who might ask questions. The whole team is low-key curious about Jack's _girlfriend_ , the baker. Thank God Boston's a short trip.

His phone pings. 

_Bitty: So dang sorry I can't be there. ♥  
Bitty: Hope there's no traffic!_

Jack's shirt is plastered to his back because it's one of those mid-October days that feels like the armpit of August. His teammates are taking their sweet time, but Jack's in no rush. He leans against the bus's door frame with one foot planted on the bottom step. He has to keep his phone close to his chest to block the afternoon sun, but it feels safer too. No one can possibly see his screen.

 _Jack: Middle of the day. Should be fine_  
_Bitty: Sweetheart. Are you tryin to jinx it?_  
_Bitty: You know 95 is cursed._  
_Jack: You sound like my mémere._  
_Bitty: moomaw's always know!_  
_Jack: mine thought putting a hat on a bed was bad luck._

Jack's mémere would be the first to agree that there's a curse on something, right after she asked Jack the last time went to confession. A hot drop of guilt burns through him. He hasn't been since before... It's just not his thing for so many reasons.

"Zimmermann. Look alive!" The head coach waves him on board. Jack hustles up, but a few guys are still blocking the aisle. You wouldn't think a bunch of burly hockey players would take so long to sit down. Jack takes a photo of the upholstery to amuse Bitty.

_Bitty: Good Lord. Orange and blue and gray!? Hideous!!_

The assistant coach, Ted, is sitting behind the driver cleaning his sunglasses on the tail of his heat-wilted button down shirt. Ted is saying, "...always construction or an accident. Think we'll make good time?"

The bus driver is standing with one knee resting on his seat. He snaps his gum. "It's 95. Whadda ya gonna do?

Jack leans on the back of the empty seat next to Ted, waiting for Thirdy to sit down so he can get by. Jack's not going to sit with Ted. That would be like sitting next to your teacher on a field trip. The driver starts telling Ted about his daughter who lives in Woonsocket, but has to commute to Quincy and Jack texts Bitty again.

 _Jack: Is it just me or does the RI accent sound more like Long Island?_  
_Bitty: idk. your accent is cute unless you're saying pecan_  
_Jack: pee can. Gotta find a seat._  
_Bitty: ilu! You're gonna slay them!_  


Alexei Mashkov drums the open seat next to him with one gigantic hand and yells, “Zimmboni! SIT!”

Thirdy, who finally sat down across the aisle, gives Jack a look: _sorry dude..._ Jack shakes his head: _it's cool._

Jack usually doesn't have enough leg room in vehicles, but he doesn't have to fold himself up like Tater. He’s been around hulking hockey players his whole life, but Tater is something else. It’s not just the four inches Tater has on Jack, or that he’s basically an assault vehicle on legs. He's loud. He talks and gestures and fills up all the room around him. It's not a bad thing. Jack likes him.

His problem is that if anyone on the team is going to notice that Jack’s dating a guy, it’ll be Tater. He doesn’t just take up space. He pays attention. Thankfully he's paying attention to something Ted is asking him while Jack gets settled.

Traffic is light on 95. It's such a familiar road now and not the ribbon of terror and potential carnage he experienced the first time Shitty drove him down the Cape. He drove with one hand on the wheel and kept grumbling, "People don't know how to fucking merge." Jack gripped the _oh shit_ handle until they were over the Sagamore Bridge. He misses that asshole so much.

Jack hunches over to grab his headphones out of his bag, which is under the seat in front of him. Tater squeezes the back of Jack’s neck and shakes him like a cat with a kitten. “You excited? Boston is good team, but we are better.”

“HELL YEAH!” Someone shouts from behind them.

Tater twists around and fist bumps someone and also knocks something over so there’s a whole bunch of yelling, but Jack can’t tell one of their manly yawps from another yet.

No matter how much Ransom and Holster tried to sound alike--they didn’t. He’d know Shitty’s voice even if he had amnesia. Lardo pitches her voice lower when she’s prodding the team to do stuff. And Bits... the twang deepens after he calls home. The vowels spread out, relaxed and warm. Everything about Bitty is warm, like he soaked up Georgia heat for 18 years and brought it to Samwell with him. Jack absently rubs the spot beneath the hollow of his throat.

Tater shakes Jack’s shoulder. “You okay? You look very hot.” Someone wolf whistles, but Tater starts flapping his gigantic hands to fan jack. "Better?"

Jack nods stupidly. His cheeks are prickly and he'd been thinking such innocent thoughts. He could turn on the air nozzle above his seat, but Tater must be enjoying the fanning, because he keeps going.

“Zimmboni. We are good pair. You say nothing. I yip yap all the time.” Tater’s eyebrows go way up. He’s a big golden retriever waiting for praise. Jack laughs and after the first forced second he means it.

Thirdy leans across the aisle with two bright purple earplugs in his palm. “I have extra. If you want ‘em.”

Jack shakes his head. ‘I’m good. Thanks.”

But Tater guffaws and slaps his thigh and then Jack’s thigh. Thirdy shakes his head, but he’s grinning. You can’t be mean to Tater unless you want to feel like the Grinch stealing Christmas and canceling someone’s birthday. (Someone besides Jesus. Désolé, mémere.) The guy is always the first to laugh at himself. (Tater, once again not Jesus. Merde. (Jack will have to remember to tell Bitty his internal monologue later. He’s going to laugh himself silly.))

“My mother always saying to me, ‘Aloysha. Use inside voice or go outside.’ But I never learn.” Alexei shifts trying to find room for his endless legs. “I am thinking you not having this problem.”

Jack shakes his head and fiddles with his earbuds, wriggling them between his fingers. Only child. Never very chatty.

Tater eyes the bag Jack tucked under the seat. "Your girl--she bake something?"

Jack shakes his head. "Wasn't enough time." Another text pings, but it's not Eric. It's Patrice Bergeron, whom he's known since was 9 years old.

_Bergeron: Gonna be great to play you again!_  
_Jack: ouais. attache ta tuque!  
_Bergeron: Et toi aussi mon ami!_ _

"That your girl?" Tater leans over to see and pretends to be incredibly shocked. "Bergeron texting you!? Zimmboni. Why are you cavorting with the enemy?"

Thirdy mutters _consorting_ very quietly like he just can't not say it even if Tater can't hear him.

Someone at least 5 rows back bellows, "Tell Bergy he can suck--" But he's shouted down by several people. They call him St. Patrice for a reason. Jack'd bet five bucks his father went to watch the Bruins practice today. Said he was excited for Jack's first away game. And of course Patrice texted him. Jack is very glad his father is going be there tonight. The whole Samwell team is in New Haven playing Yale and Shitty has a study group project he can't get out of.

Tater looks down at Jack's hands, twitching his earbuds back and forth. He smiles kindly. “Is okay if you want to listen to music, Zimmboni.” Tater bumps his shoulder into Jack's which almost knocks him into the aisle. He's looking forward to seeing any one of the Bruins get in Tater's way.

“You sure?” Jack holds the earbuds just outside his ears.

Tater says, "Yeah. Go on." 

Jack pokes the earbuds into place. Tater grins and his eyes crinkle up. They’re a different sort of warm brown than Bitty's. Milk chocolate versus grade B maple syrup. Jack's always liked grade B better than the grade A fancy stuff. It’s darker and you can almost taste the tree. In a good way.

Tater is hanging over the back of Snowy's seat, periodically rocking it. Jack listens to a pre-game playlist Bitty made him in the name of expanding his horizons and introducing him to music from this century. He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out.

People keep telling Jack he looks happier these days. They mean well, but it reminds him of how miserable he was not that long ago. Taylor Swift is singing, "Shake it Off" and that's easier to do because he likes himself more. Something about Bitty helps Jack be at ease. He glances at Tater and prays he understands that when he figures it out. Jack's got just enough of his mémere's superstition in his veins to run through _Notre Père_ silently. Then he texts Bitty before he forgets.

 _Jack: remind me to talk to you about Jesus later._  
_Bitty: Um... whyyyyyyy?_  
_Jack: Funny story. Beat the tar out of Yale._  
_Bitty: We'll do our best!_  
_Jack: Plus tard, mon cher._  
_Bitty: bonne chance! je t'aime  
_Jack: moi aussi__


End file.
